


The Broken Owl and the Clockwork Boy

by spicedpiano



Series: Steam [1]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Fluff, Gen, Homelessness, Kid Fic, M/M, Meet As Children, Owls, Pre-Slash, Sweet, Toymakers, Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 03:08:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicedpiano/pseuds/spicedpiano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik doesn't make toys so much as he puts them up for adoption.</p><p>(The story of two boys, a train station, and a clockwork owl.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Broken Owl and the Clockwork Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Subtilior](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Subtilior/gifts).



> Written in response to a prompt from **Til**. You can read the original prompt [here](http://spicedpiano.tumblr.com/post/36470801591/i-love-this-so-kid-charles-and-erik%20).
> 
>  **Celadonite** has done some beautiful fanart for this story, as well! It's [right here](http://aqueoushumor.tumblr.com/post/36498340745/cant-be-bothered-to-think-up-of-something-so-im), and captures the verse and the setting so perfectly. Check it out!
> 
> *
> 
> Thank you to **Tahariel** for looking over this story for me and making sure there weren't any glaring errors. You're a star.  <3

Charles notices the boy the same way he notices everyone else. He feels him.

It is the same way he knows the boy lives in the train station, sleeping on the benches when he can get away with it. When he can’t, he uses his power (and what a wonderful power it is!) to pick the locks on the janitor’s cupboard, curling up between the mildewed mop and empty washbuckets, using an empty shelf as a pillow.

The boy steals food, sometimes, but he buys it when he can, with the money he makes selling little metal toys to the travelers’ children at platform gates. Tiny iron elephants. Delicate clockwork figurines that can both play music and tell the time.

Charles purchased one, a few months ago. It was a miniature owl that, when wound, would fly around your head, flapping silver wings and blinking round glass eyes. He loved it, but then Cain stepped on it and now one of those paper-thin wings is crumpled and torn. The owl just rattles half-heartedly around the surface of his desk, beak opening and closing, eyes wide and blank. He carries the toy back to the train station in his pocket, wrapped in his father’s old handkerchief for safe-keeping. 

The boy is on Platform 9 today. He doesn’t seem to have any customers; he’s sitting cross-legged on the ground, holding one of his creations, idly turning its screw. Charles doesn’t have to look deep to know it’s been a bad day. He almost got caught stealing a bag of chips this morning from the vendor near Platform 28, and three people so far have told him to go home, get off the street, clean himself up, learn English. Erik - his name is Erik - _does_ know English. He just knew Yiddish first.

“Hi,” Charles says. 

Erik looks up. His eyes are very green, especially in contrast to the smudge of soot above his left brow. ”Hello,” Erik says. Charles doesn’t think his accent is all that thick, personally. ”Do you want to buy a toy?”

“Actually,” Charles says, “I already got one.” 

He pulls the owl out of his pocket, unwrapping the cloth slowly, not wanting to cause any more damage. He hands it over to Erik, who frowns at the crumpled wing. 

“What did you do to it?” Erik’s voice is neutral, but Charles picks up on the irritation that threads through Erik’s mind all the same. Erik thinks of his creations like children, in a way. He loves them. He doesn’t like selling them, but he has to if he wants to eat.

“I didn’t,” Charles argues, put a little bit on the defensive. ”It was my brother. He’s - well, he’s not very careful with other people’s things. Can you fix it?”

Erik looks for a second like he wants to refuse - probably out of spite - but a moment later he nods anyway. ”Yes. One moment, please.”

Erik hunches over the owl, dipping his head forward. Charles knows he’s trying to conceal what he’s doing from Charles, but Charles is already latched onto the tail end of Erik’s thoughts and he feels it all the same. The quiet thrill Erik gets every time he uses his power, the familiar bend of metal to his touch, the way the owl feels far more alive to him than the real thing ever could.

Charles’s heart is pounding in his chest by the time Erik straightens up again, holding the owl in his hands, as if brand new. Erik turns the screw beneath the bird’s tailfeather and it lifts its wings, flaps twice, then takes to the air, orbiting Erik’s head and chirping happily.

“Erik!” Charles exclaims before he can think better of it - and somehow he finds himself crouched on the floor, his knees knocking against Erik’s, cheeks hot and every fiber of his body feeling lit on fire. ”Erik, that’s amazing, that - what you did, it was - ”

“How do you know my name?” Erik’s eyes have gone narrow, his jaw clenched tight, and Charles senses a wave of suspicion and mistrust tumbling off him that should be too strong to ignore.

But Charles does ignore it, and he reaches out, lacing his fingers with Erik’s own to clasp their hands together, skin on skin. He’s smiling but his lips don’t move as he says:

_«You’re not alone. Erik - you are not alone.»_


End file.
